


They Danced All Night

by kat8cha



Category: Much Ado About Nothing - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat8cha/pseuds/kat8cha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don Pedro, Prince of Aragorn, is not a man who may have what he wishes for lightly. Caught out by the married pair, for one night, he slakes his thirst for one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Danced All Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XII, based on Shakespeare's Much Ado about Nothing but loosely inspired by the Kenneth Branagh film as well. It was such a part of my life growing up that I couldn't help what slipped through.

He stands in the darkened archway, hidden from their gaze by shadows and the curtain of fading rain. Not that they would look his way, indeed they only had eyes for each other as they twirled beneath the night sky. He felt no guilt for watching them for their joy would negate any guilt and their love was the kind aspired to by poets and playwrights, the kind that was spread across the realm and was impossible to ignore for it burned like a light in the darkness. It was a love that heroes would die for (and indeed a love that one Hero had died for although not directly). They loved so openly that to be invited to dinner (as he had been) was to be invited to dine at Cupid's table. They filled the halls of their home with light and laughter, their wit and spirit undiminished by their marriage. 

He knows he has tarried too long when they turn their gaze from each other to the sky, the rain has stopped and so has their dancing. Their linen clings to them and the moon, escaping the cloud's clutching embrace, lights the path to their house.

He is no coward to hide from their gaze or to crouch in the shadows like a thief in the night as they return to their bed. Still he does not wish to bother them lest his gaze break up their merriment, he turns to return to the house.

"My lord." Beatrice's voice, as fair as birdsong and shattering his dream as surely as the cry of the lark. "We had thought that you were asleep." 

Don Pedro cannot help but look upon her beauty. Dampened by rain she still holds beauty, radiant as the sun, her hair curls round her face and clings to her shoulders and her bosom glistens in the moonlight. Her breasts, fair and pale as the moon, are tipped with darkened crests, visible beneath the wet linin of her dress. He looks at Benedict, damp as well but as fresh as when they had both been soldiers together and played the games that soldiers play. Neither of them is safe to look at but while the view is offered he will look, though it is a sin to lust after either. 

"The sounds of your revelry awoke me." Benedict's eyes were wide and dark in the moonlight and he pulled his wife to him, the two of them a matched set. Was this real? Perhaps he did but dream, tucked away in one of the many rooms of their residence, full of the wine from Benedict's cellar and drunk on the sight of their love. "What music was it you two danced to, for it must surely have been the music of the god's, you seemed as if to have wings." 

"If we had wings, your grace, it is because my wife has learned to fly." Benedict pressed a kiss to the tip of his wife's forehead and for a second he cupped her breast before Beatrice, ever feisty, smacked it away. Then they laughed.

"If anyone could charm the secret from the birds it would be your wife." He cannot stop looking, nay, or wanting. He wishes now that he had pressed his suit then, years ago, but he knew even then that Benedict and Beatrice were meant for each other, even as neither of them was meant for him.

He must remove himself.

"Well," The lord and lady smile at him, charming and tempting and devilish, it is too much for one man, especially not a man such as he. "I should return to my bed if I ever wish to wake from this dream." For dream it must be and indeed dream he knows it to be when the lady catches his hand, her fingers twined with his, and Benedict cups his jaw. Are these truly his friends? Nay they must be spirits, succubi sent to lure him into the dark and devour his soul.

"What if you did not have to wake from this dream, your grace?" Beatrice raises his hand to her mouth, mimicking the kiss he gave her on his arrival; her tongue flickered out to taste the skin between his fingers to tickle the sensitive skin. "Or at least not yet." 

Benedict's thump caressed his cheek, a rough thumb, calloused by war. "It has not escaped our notice, my liege, that you deny yourself the pleasure of the marriage bed." For how could he marry when the two he wished for were denied him? Even as he denied this suit and that for petty reasons he would marry for his father yet. "And since it is within us to share," Benedict looked down on his wife and Beatrice looked up at her husband, when their eyes met it was obvious that none could break the bond, "we offer you the use of ours." 

To resist would take a stronger man, or a lesser man, and Don Pedro was neither. "For one night." 

Succubi indeed, but if he was to be damned he would be damned by the smiles on his friends faces. He is not even sure who responds to him then, for he is already lots. "If you wish." 

The trip between the hidden alcove and the master bedroom is filled with the taste of their mouths and the touch of hot flesh under chill, damp cloth. He does not remember the way, although he knows it for he has walked it before, and it takes both forever and lasts not long enough before the heavy wooden doors are closed behind their backs and he has Beatrice on his thighs, her bare back pressed against the door as he cups her breasts, his mouth latched onto one dusky nipple as Benedict whispers in her ear, Benedict's hand is between their hips, pressed up under Beatrice's dress into her tight, hot folds.

It is too much.

It is not enough.

They move onto the bed. Beatrice shucks her dress hurriedly, the fabric lies on the floor in a knotted, tangled mess and her dirty slippers come off just as easily. She lies back on her bed, hair a dark shadow over the pillows and she laughs as she watches the two of them. "I would expect the two of you to be faster, are you not well versed in undressing yourselves?" 

Benedict's fingers are tangled with the laces of Don Pedro's breaches and he smiles at his lady wife before undoing the knots and tugging the tight fabric down. On his knees he looks up at his lord, a position they have not been in since their last crusade. Pedro breathes, his hands moving of their own accord to grasp Benedict's hair when the married man ducks his head forward. It is a remnant of their nights together, in darkened tents when soldiers had a choice of their brothers or whores. He would never risk a bastard, much as he had loved his brother, and Benedict had offered him another option to explore. His mouth is hot, wet, and knowing. He cannot help but close his eyes.

Too soon Benedict is pulling away and urging him onto the bed, towards Beatrice. She is slick and ready for him and he hesitates but a second before she cups his face and pulls him into a kiss, pulls him forward into her. Her heat is sweet, intoxicating, and Benedict murmurs in his ear of his lady's virtues and her sins as she encourages him with gentle touches and needy sounds. Too soon, he spills within her, his mouth pressed open to her shoulder as he muffled the sounds of his coming. 

She presses him onto the bed as he is spent and he looks up at her as she smiles. Succubi? No, for she must be an angel, she is so radiant.

"You flatter me, my lord." She whispers, and then gasps as Benedict appears above her shoulder. "You flatter us both."

He lay beneath them as they moved together, Beatrice's breasts swinging free above him and the sounds of their love making ringing in his ears.


End file.
